


après moi, le deluge

by alpacas



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, also look: sometimes i like to just write nonsense and this is one of those times, another quick and hasty character study, because evil caleb is the gift that just keeps on giving, bless you charm spells, by a mess i mean INCREDIBLE, yet more e55 bullshit this episode was a mess ya'll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: you can't break that/which isn't yours.[e55 spoilers.]





	après moi, le deluge

**Author's Note:**

> yet another 'fic for last night's episode because WOW was it a great one for this shit. kind of a companion to [the other story i posted today](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119603) but more spiritually than literally.
> 
> title/lyrics from regina spektor's après moi which is an EXCELLENT caleb song by the way:
> 
> _i must go on standing  
>  you can't break that which isn't yours  
> i must go on standing  
> i'm not my own, it's not my choice_
> 
> _be afraid of the lame, they'll inherit your legs  
>  be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls  
> be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood  
> après moi le deluge, after me comes the flood_

It's sharp and clear. Bright and clean as ice, the thin sheets that would cover leaves and branches after a winter storm, snap icicles off between two fingers, crunch them between your teeth. Just to bite. To chew. Hard and then snapping, fresh and cold on your tongue. He doesn't feel the fire at all.

The room is bright and clean. There are his so-called friends, betraying him, and he feels no fury, feels no rage: he knew, hadn't he? ( _You did_ , she whispers, her fingers long on his shoulder, _you knew, my clever boy, my sweet_ ), he knew and he saw and he got the jump, caught them before they could strike him by night, watching yellow eyes and wet furs, dusty knuckles, bitter herbs, sugar candy clouds of magical power — they come and he pushes them back, they burn and he feels none of the heat.

His mind is cold and clear. It would snow in the winters. It would snow. Biting ice. Snapping them between his teeth. Drink the whiskey and eat the glass. He is burning, he is calm, he is cold.

Traitors, all.

This is what becomes of friendship. This is what becomes of trust. Water crashes and swells and pours and the room flashes with steam and magic, and he holds fast, he holds, holds. He sends fire. They strike and prove him right. He has always been right ( _sweetness, precious, love_ ), he has always known, their betrayal is not painful but inevitable. It is a relief to finally kill.

Nott speaks and he feels the wet trickle of her magic:

Fjord sends the ocean against him:

Beau speaks words, meaningless words, takes him for a fool:

He turns as his fire ebbs, as the room grows colder, his mind clear and sharp and bright. He thinks: Traitors must be punished.

He turns and Yasha stands before him, and the pain from her blow is hot, it grows and it spreads, a fingernail thin line throbbing and pulsing and deepening and blooming, sending roots and tendrils and leaves of pain and blood: He stu — stum, Ca —

He —

He stumbles.

 _Caleb_ —

Caleb breathes in and his first breath is wet and heavy with smoke and steam and dirt, he coughs and chokes upon it, dizzy, spinning, flames sputtering and growing as he takes a knee on the muddy, rocky floor, looking at the drag marks and footprints of their battle, the shrieks of Jester to Fjord, Beau to Caduceus, smoke in his nose and hands and mouth: he covers his mouth with his hands and smells his sweat and his blood and ash and fire, and fire, the room hot, sweat pooling under his arms, the curve of his back, his neck — and the pain, pulsing and growing, twice and thrice mended clothing peeling open, burning hot, pulsing, pulsing, burning him to ash,

 _I wanted to kill these people_. I. _I_. And wonderment: he is an _I_ , again, there is no voice, no shards of ice in his mouth, on his shoulder, _I_. Falls forward on his knees: there is Jester, muddy, wet, her cheek shining with a burn, her eyes smoke-stung red and wet, her skirts sodden, she is rushing away, away from Caleb, to the other injured — he leans towards her; he cannot speak —

A small darting shape. Nott brushes past Yasha, her long fingers already unstoppering a bottle, her crossbow tucked into her armpit like a book, unhurt, unbleeding, unbroken. "Here, here, you're hurt, take —"

His fingers curl around her hands and her potion and push — Caleb is not even aware of it, of their movements, just the hollow look on Nott's face, the sickly sweet smell of the medicine.

"No," she says firmly. "Drink it. You're hurt."

I did this. Heal Jester, heal Fjord who almost killed me, heal Yasha who came so close. Heal Beau for being a fool who wanted to talk me to my senses. For thinking I possess them. Take it for yourself, keep it for yourself. The wet spring of Nott's magic, cold and fresh, seeping into the soles of your shoes, the corners of your mouth, fresh on your tongue: Nott's illusions, not her bolts or pistols or gunpowder. You did not try to hurt me, but you must be willing. You more than any. I would hurt you.

He pushes the bottle away. She pushes it with surprising force against his chest, his sticky wound, his pounding heart, the center of the pulsing heat and pain and blood, the potion glowing, sloshing.

Standing alone and invisible, she'd called for him. Standing alone and visible, he'd fallen. Standing alone, he'd tried to kill them all. Kill the traitors. Again.

"Drink it," she says, already looking away, looking far, deeper in the cavern, deeper to the demons, glassy eyed and hollow, her fingers thin and cold. Both their hands are bloodied when he moves them from his heart.

The potion is the sickly sweet of rotting fruit and languid summers. He takes one gulp and a second, the bottle empty and fragile and hot in his hand. Nott crumbles gum arabic between her fingers, dust falling with the ashes on the floor, and vanishes from sight. Yasha watches him. Caduceus heals a dog. Caleb sinks deeper into the muddy floor, rocks digging into his knees, the blood gone and yet still pounding, pounding.

_Leave them. They will only hurt you. Kill them. They will only bring you pain._

_My dear boy, don't you yet know better?_

Chew. Bite. Sharp and bright. Cold on your tongue.

Drink the whiskey and eat the glass.


End file.
